


String of Question Marks

by deutschtard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Coping, Gen, Other, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-04
Packaged: 2017-11-01 00:11:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deutschtard/pseuds/deutschtard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't understand why John hasn't said something. After three years gone, he acts like he'd never left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Return

It had been two years, nine months, four days, seven hours and thirty-three minutes since Sherlock Holmes had jumped off the roof of St. Bartholomew’s hospital to his supposed death.

Today had been like any other day. Sherlock burst into the flat, hair wet, jacket sopping, a faint fleck of some unknown substance on his face. John looked up at him and sighed, “Christ, Sherlock.”

“John, I am so sorry. I—“

“Sherlock, it doesn’t matter. It’s  _fine._ ” His friend’s voice was level, as though it had been only a day since they’d last seen each other, that he’d never jumped off that roof, that he’d never hidden himself away and forced his friend to endure unbearable amounts of pain.

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. He expected something, anything. Yelling, screaming, crying, punching, he wouldn’t even have put it past John Watson to throw the pocket knife lodged in the side table at him. He guided himself to the couch and sat down, the entire flat seeming as though it were made of eggshells, as though one wrong word, one wrong  _breath_  and the entire house of cards would come down around their ears.

He waited for him to say something, thinking that perhaps John had gone into shock and didn’t know how to react. Sherlock stared at him, two-day old shirt, cold tea, book he’d already read twice—no, three times—judging by the dog ears on the pages. He hadn’t slept well, the bags under his eyes looked worse than when he’d been kept up because of the blind banker.

“Sherlock,” John said, not looking up from his book, “you’ll mould the carpet and Mrs. Hudson will put it on our rent.”

He hadn’t even noticed the rain puddling around his feet, a dark ring etching itself against the fabric of the carpet. Of course. The jacket was placed on the coat rack, along with his scarf, and he went to make himself a cup of tea. Something about this situation was bothering him. He kept looking at the various things in the flat, doing his best to find something,  _anything_  that could tell him why John wasn’t reacting like he knew John Watson would have reacted.

But there was nothing. Nothing but a string of unanswered question marks that led right to his only friend.

______

“DAMN!” The shatter and loud outburst actually made Sherlock startle—something that hadn’t happened in longer than he could accurately remember. When he looked, he saw John cleaning up a beaker that he’d knocked over.

He hesitated. John was perfectly capable of cleaning up after himself, and something told him to stay away. “Are you alright in there?” he offered, much more quietly than his normal inquisitions.

“Yeah, fine, I just…damn burner. I wish you’d not leave them so near the edge of the table like that, Sherlock!” The sound of the rubbish bin opening , the glass tinkling in, and then silence. When Sherlock looked up from his work, he saw John standing, facing the sink stock still. His head was hung low and his shoulders were sagging. Sherlock felt a tugging in the center of his chest, and he couldn’t understand why. Again, he looked at the signs, observed everything, but all that lay on those slumped shoulders of his friend was another line of question marks.

This happened every once in a while. Something would break, John would drop something, or he would suddenly go quiet and stand in the kitchen as though a man possessed. Sherlock never assisted him, not unless he saw John in any immediate danger. And when he did, he made sure not to touch him.

Once, he had touched John as he helped clean a shattered teacup and spilt Ceylon tea. John had frozen solid for the faintest of moments, a dark colour flashed through his eyes. But he didn’t look at Sherlock. He took what Sherlock saw as calming breaths and continued cleaning it up.

Sherlock didn’t dare touch him again.

____

A particularly quiet day nearly a month after his return, Sherlock had been watching John write on his computer for the past two hours. “John…is everything…are you alright?”

“Yes…” John only locked eyes with his friend for a hair of a second before burying his nose back in the computer, “Yes, I’m…I’m fine.”

____

When John was at work one day, Sherlock had phoned Lestrade. He was going absolutely mental without anything to do. He’d gone far past bored, and he wasn’t about to let his mind go fallow.

One afternoon, a few days later, Lestrade came up to the flat. John made himself tea and offered some to the DI, who politely refused.

“I won’t be here long enough for tea,” he said, brushing past John and coming to stand in front of Sherlock, “I know you’ve been home long enough, but we’ve got a suicide that couldn’t possibly be a suicide. Large metal doors bolted from the inside and a man who couldn’t even open his hands to  _hold_  a gun, let alone shoot it. Will you come?”

Sherlock looked from the Detective Inspector to John, and that tugging at his chest happened again.

John was paralyzed. The tea was slowly dribbling to the ground as his arms went to his sides of their own accord. His jaw was hanging slack.

Carefully, Sherlock stood and came towards him, “John, John are you alright?”

He didn’t answer him. “L-Lestrade…You can see him, too?” he whispered.

“Bloody hell….” Lestrade covered his mouth and scrubbed at his cheek with his hand as the situation sunk in around the two of them.

It …it couldn’t be. Why hadn’t he noticed? The question marks disappeared as Sherlock chanced a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder, “Oh, John….”


	2. The Backlash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that he's no longer a figment, Sherlock tries to apologise. John isn't keen on accepting.

"No," the word came out so harshly, Sherlock felt like he'd been slapped in the face, "No, I don't want your pity, Sherlock. I don't... I need you to leave."

Sherlock stood, stunned, "John, I can't leave, I--"

"You can. I need you to get out of this house and get out of my face. I can't...I can't handle you right now."

Lestrade looked from John to Sherlock, eyes wide, slightly confused but still wanting to help, "Listen here, mate, I'll take him on this case and you just stay here, right? I'll call you if we need you but...but I'll keep him away for a while."

"Fine! Do whatever, I just...I need you to go," John's hands were shaking. Sherlock glanced him up and down: Palms were perspiring, nervous; A single tear, harder to pinpoint, sadness? relief? John had never been one to cry out of anger. With a blink, he knew he had to go, wordlessly gliding out of the flat, Lestrade in tow as they made their way to the crime scene.

____

Sherlock didn't come back to the flat after the cursory glance at the case, he'd texted John, "Text me when and if I'm allowed back. SH", and made his way to a pub in the center of Camden town.

He stood outside for ten minutes, staring at the nearest CCTV camera until, nearly on cue, a black sedan pulled up and the door opened.

"Anthea,"

"Sherlock."

"He's quite cross, isn't he?" He said, slipping in across from her, not making eye contact.

"Actually... He seemed...relieved," her eyes never left her mobile screen.

His eyebrows raised momentarily, slight shock, before settling as his face resumed its normal expression. His brother? Relieved to see him? Something told him that this would not be the ordinary meeting with Mycroft that he'd been used to in his younger days.

______

It was almost amusing, watching the driver attempt to take a tangled route to confuse him to the location. Surely he'd been told who he was ferrying and that this sort of precaution wasn't necessary. And yet, he continued, left turn here, round the roundabout twice, right turn, around in a U, until finally, he'd stopped.

Sherlock opened the door and found himself in a rather nice area on the outskirts of town, though the warehouse stuck out, a rusted sore thumb in the midst of a field. Very unlike the normal places he’d been dragged to.

He entered and was gobsmacked as Mycroft hugged him. It was momentary, gone in almost a second, but it was there.

“….Mycroft.”

“Sherlock,” he cleared his throat, “It _has_ been too long.”

Sherlock sighed, “I’m frankly surprised you hadn’t arranged to have me kidnapped until now. I’ve been home nearly a month.

Mycroft’s lip curled, “Things are quite busy. It’s an election year,” a pause, “it would have been more amenable to my schedule had you come back six months ago.

“I did what was necessary,” he said, making no other response.

“At the expense of your friend’s sanity,” the tone was telling. Mycroft had been there when Sherlock hadn’t. Mycroft had seen John change. Of the few people he couldn’t read in seconds, Mycroft was at the top of the list.

“Tell me.”

The elder Holmes gave a scoffing sound, “I’ve not the time to list the decline of Doctor Watson’s mental state. Why don’t you ask him?”

His jaw muscles clenched, but he gave no outward notifications of that arrow to the chest his brother had just shot at him, “He’s told me to leave, I’m to wait for a text when I’m allowed back.

Mycroft’s face took on an almost bemused expression, which quickly faded. “I’m surprised he didn’t beat you to a pulp, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s head fell before he could stop it, “He only just…realised I wasn’t a hallucination.”

Mycroft felt a slight tugging in his chest, but he ignored it, his features glossing over, becoming the iceman once more, “He barred me from ‘checking up on him’ over a year ago. I did, still, on your request. But not in person,” a pause, “I hadn’t realised it had gotten that bad.”

“Yes, well, it has, and I may not have a place to sleep tonight because of it,” his words were tinged with more malice than he intended. The silence settled, “Is there anything else?”

His eyebrow arched, surveying his younger brother, “No.”

Without another word, Sherlock turned on his heel and got back in the car.

Mycroft texted Anthea and told her where to take him, an old place he’d not visited in quite a while.

______

A nondescript flat, completely empty save the wingback chair and cot in the corner. A fire was lit in the fireplace when he arrived. Sherlock knew he wouldn’t stay here for long, something told him.

He checked his mobile obsessively, having nothing else to do but pace and listen to the specific creak of the floorboards, deducing which ones were most likely to break under his weight. It became almost a game, hopping from one to the other, avoiding the loudest ones until his mobile alerted him to a text.

“You can sleep here, but I’m still not talking to you.”

Sherlock frowned, slipping the phone in his pocket and hailing a taxi.

_____

He was prepared to search the apartment for John, wanting to apologise to his face, but there was a note tucked under the bottom of the knocker of the front door, his name in Mrs. Hudson’s curly handwriting.

_Sherlock, dear,_

_John’s told me you’re not to disturb him. He’ll let you know when he’s ready to talk. In the morning I’ll cook a full English for the two of you if he’ll let me. So good to have you back. You’re welcome to come explain to me how you’ve come back from the dead. I think I deserve an explanation as much as he does._

_Mrs. H_

Stuffing the note in his pocket, he clomped up to his bedroom like a petulant child, shutting the door forcefully behind him.

Now wasn’t the time to get angry. Now was the time to plan out his apology. John had to let him explain himself at some point, and Sherlock hoped that point was sooner rather than later.


End file.
